


For Lordaeron

by Zainir



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:43:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2161041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zainir/pseuds/Zainir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the siege on Orgrimmar, the Alliance has decided to quickly break the fragile peace brought by the defeat of the True Horde. The armies of Ironforge, Stormwind, and Gilneas move north to bring war to the Forsaken, yet the rest of the Horde seems unwilling or unable to offer assistance. The Banshee Queen has called all her faithful home, along with a number of new assets, and they will not lose Lordaeron without a truly devastating fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome Home

The trip had been quiet since they left Orgrimmar. If not for the low, steady growl of the engine, the creaking of the ropes, and quiet chatter of the goblin pilots, the zeppelin would have sailed across the ocean in silence. Now that the dark trees and rocky cliffs of the Tirisfal coast were in view and the sky above them was tinged green, scorched years ago by demonic energies, the passengers had lined the decks in anticipation. Despite having flown this route for years, the goblins looked slightly nervous as the crowd of Forsaken seemed to endlessly grow. Normally, they would carry two dozen or so adventurers and merchants back and forth between the continents. This trip, however, had at least three times that many. Maybe four. Nothing but undead jammed aboard the wooden craft. The money offered by the leadership had been good enough to that the owners of the craft had ripped nearly every scrap of furnishing out to make room for more passengers. The money was good enough that the captain of the zeppelin that flew the Stranglethorn route had abandoned that job to help ferry more Forsaken back to Lordaeron. Though, that trip had become almost too dangerous to be worth it.

Goblins on the tower tied the rumbling aircraft down and began to guide the Forsaken off in groups, pausing between each to replace bodies and cargo with fresh supplies to keep the zeppelin weighed down. The goblins moved efficiently enough and the Forsaken were a people of patience. They all knew why they had been called home and there was no excitement. Traders and merchants had left behind shops, bringing only what they could. Mercenaries had broken contracts and sometimes abandoned their employers. No Forsaken truly loyal to the Banshee Queen could have denied the call home.

Lydine Amsel was fairly typical for a Forsaken. Average height that was a few inches shorter than when she was alive and skinny to the point of emaciation. Her bottom jaw was not her own and instead was one constructed of iron that was wired to her face and bolted into a hinge. Her hair was a light brown, tinged with green and was cut close to her head in what would have been a boyish fashion for a human. It amused her, somewhat, to think of it that way. She had been old enough when alive that it was easy to spot the deterioration of her culture. She didn’t miss it as much as she used to.

She edged her way through the slowly moving crowd as they trudged toward Capital City. Lydine had to stop for her cargo first. Most of the rest brought only what they could easily carry. She had tried and wore a set of baggy clothes, a heavy satchel at her waist, and a long rectangular soft leather container on her back. A group of goblins and a handful of Forsaken guards were busy with unloading the last of the cargo, so she did her best to stay out of their way while looking. It didn’t take long to find what she wanted. She skirted around a pair of goblins and dragged a rough wooden crate with AMSEL painted across the top out of the loading area. She pulled her long-knife from her bag and used the blade to pry open the crate. Inside it was what looked like an old and crumpled wolf pelt.

“Come on, we’re here,” Lydine said to the box, the metal hinge of her jaw clicking softly. When nothing happened, she tapped the nearly three foot long blade against the edge of the crate. “Really? You’re doing this now? I’m sorry I put you in the box, okay?”

The pelt opened its eyes and stared at Lydine for a moment before it got slowly to its feet. Once outside the box, the mangy looking wolf shook its whole body almost indignantly. Signs of disease riddled the beast, leaving patches of missing fur and rot-eaten skin. Clumsy stitching ran in looping paths that often crossed each other across its hide. Lydine put her blade away and rubbed the wolf behind its ears.

“I guess we’re back, Fulton,” she said as she looked up at the city wall. The wolf simply lolled his tongue out of his mouth happily.

Lydine’s upper lip curled in her best attempt at a smile and she ruffled the wolf’s fur as they set off across the field. The line of her compatriots were already disappearing into the outer gate of Capital City. She fell in behind them, though she kept a slight distance with one hand on Fulton’s neck. The wolf was nearly frothing with excitement as he looked around, taking in all the new sights and smells. Lydine was less excited. Being in a city, any city, was no fun for her. It rattled her nerves and disrupted her painstakingly trained senses with an overload of noise and activity.

The line made its way through the courtyard and into the throne room, where it split in two. Beyond the throne room, the lines entered into the small mausoleum that housed a single large tomb. Nearly every Forsaken who passed by it paused to brush their fingertips across it. Lydine did the same, though she wasn’t entirely sure why she did. There was nothing in that box of stone, despite the fact that the name of their long dead king adorned it. It was empty, he was gone, and they served another now. But there was always some wriggling thought in the back of her mind, some desire to try and remember who she used to be.

She sighed and walked onward, slipping into one of the hallways that split off from the tomb. She chose a less crowded path, but they all went to the same place. At the end of them were the huge, circular elevators that descended deep beneath the city. Powered by a mix of intricate engineering and enduring magic, they bore Lydine and the others down into the earth in almost complete silence. When the doors opened, she was surprised to be staring into the face of a towering abomination. The creature, stitched together from dozens of other corpses, blinked stupidly but held its weapons with a menace only it could manage. She was surprised because they had been forbidden, by order of two Warchiefs now, from using them as guards. They were to be monitored by orcs, the elite Kor’kron Guard.

“Please move forward and follow the signs,” a Forsaken said, interrupting Lydine’s thoughts. He was standing on a large crate so he could be seen above the crowd. “If your last name starts with A through M, please go to the right. Names N through Z, to the left. Please keep moving.”

Lydine followed the signs, making her way into the central hub of the city. They led her to an empty room where a number of Forsaken sat at desks with large books in front of her. The lines had split off, leaving her with the letters A through D, so it was fairly quiet but she could still hear the low, sustained roar of the crowds outside. That, along with the shouts of the people at the elevator, had shattered the normally silent air of the city. She felt lucky that she had arrived when she did, because the lines now were short and it sounded as if things were going to turn hectic soon enough.

“Name?” the woman at the desk marked with an A said in a croaking voice.

“Lydine Amsel.”

“Amsel. Amsel. A good name, that,” the woman said as she flipped through a heavy, leather-bound book, “I knew some Amsels when I was alive. Did you live in Andorhal?”

Lydine smiled her broken smile and shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Here you are, let me just mark you in and then we’ll decide where to put you.”

“Where to put me?” Lydine said with a raised brow.

“Oh, yes. That’s right,” the woman said with a crooked smile, “You are hereby conscripted into the Banshee Queen’s military. From the look of you, it seems the infantry would be a good fit.”

Lydine shifted her shoulder so that the strap of her packaged slipped down. She tapped it with her thumb.

“I’m not much for face-to-face fighting.”

“There are gunnery companies we can put you in to.”

“Are there no...I don’t know, scouting groups?” Lydine said before she trailed off as the woman gave her an odd look.

“You’re the only person who has ever asked that,” the woman said as she shuffled through her papers. Finally, she pulled a small square of parchment out and squinted at it. “Right, well, it says here that those who go to the other sections will be tested and then moved to new positions if their skill is exemplary. However, if they ask, I can send them directly. But if they cannot prove themselves, they will be sent back to infantry, regardless of their talents, and will not be considered for movement again. I guess I’m not supposed to give this choice, but it can’t be helped now.”

“Well, it’d be terrible if it were easy, so I guess I’ll see where I end up,” Lydine said as she took a small scrap of paper from the woman.

“Good luck. Take that to the Rogues’ Quarter, not the War Quarter,” the woman said as she leaned to the side to look around Lydine. Lydine could hear the people that were making their way inside the small room. “Better get going. I spent more time with you than I should have. Make the Lady proud, Miss Amsel.”

Lydine gave a quick salute before she hurried out of the back of the room. She had no interest in being caught in a tiny area with so many others. She scratched Fulton behind his ears as the wolf sniffed around. It had been a long time since she had been here. Not quite home, but near enough in the first few years after the war. Now it was different. New tunnels and halls had been dug into the rock. Stairs and ramps led both up and down to different layers of the city. She didn’t understand why there had been so much work. Why make a city bigger if there will never be a larger number of inhabitants? Forsaken could not produce, so they could not overpopulate Undercity.

“Come on, boy,” she said to Fulton, shaking her head and dismissing the thoughts, “Let’s go find these people.”

* * *

Two days later, Lydine found herself lying prone in the underbrush a short ways from the city. Her clothes and leather vest were covered in a mixture of paint and mud, splattered strategically across the material. Her rifle was wrapped and tied with cloth of varying drab, forest colors to help it blend in. It was a human gun with an older bolt-action mechanism and a few goblin additions such as a scope. She had refused any replacement from the somewhat more up to date armory. This was her rifle and she knew it too well to give it up. She rest the weapon on a rock in front of her, peering through the scope and down the hillside into the field beyond.

A man was wandering aimlessly back and forth through the weeds and dull, sad flowers that still grew here. He was an undead that looked very much like a Forsaken, but he wasn’t. His motions were erratic and he stopped randomly to stare at the sky before lunging at some insect or imagined prey. He was a mindless zombie, a miserable creature who failed to raise in undeath properly. Sometimes they could be used for labor, but mostly they were used just like this.

Lydine reached into her ammunition pouch and pulled out a cartridge. She could tell the difference in them by touch and this one was mundane, nothing more than a metal bullet. With fluid, practiced motions, she opened the bolt of the rifle and loaded the cartridge and closed it again with a soft click. She didn’t have to breath and her heart no longer beat, so that aside from a minor tension in her muscles, her body was completely still. She fired but didn’t bother to watch the shot strike. She opened the bolt and ejected the spent casing, replacing it with another round. Five shots in total into the poor, confused creature. The first four struck it in the chest as wounds that wouldn’t kill it. The final round did that instead, striking the creature in the head. It collapsed into the field as Lydine scooped up her spent casings and tucked them in a small pouch on her hip.

She made her way through the trees and brush, walking down the hill and around the field. When she hit the pavered road that cut through the woods, she dropped any attempt to be stealthy. It wouldn’t have mattered since Fulton had been waiting there for her and the wolf immediately began to run around her, panting noisily. Lydine rubbed his head before she motioned for him to follow her. The pair walked a ways up the road to where a group of three Forsaken were waiting.

“Not bad. Who trained you?” said one, a dark haired man named Gregor Bloodvenom.

“No one, sir. I could use a gun before I died, just kept practicing afterward,” Lydine said with her best attempt at a grin, “And I spent a lot of time in Ashenvale. Only way to stay alive there is to beat the elves at their sneaking game.”

“You’ll need to work on that. Elves must be blind because Rosalind said she saw you,” Gregor said, motioning to a mousy looking Forsaken in glasses.

“Well, only at the start. And then I lost her til she fired,” Rosalind said quietly, offering a nervous smile to Lydine.

“Right, well, your aim was good and your speed good considering your equipment,” Gregor said as he glanced at her rifle with a small frown, “Certainly better than some of the idiots they send to us from the infantry.  And those dregs who think they can just show up. Like you, except you actually can shoot a gun. Anyway, meet us in the city ruins tomorrow morning. We’ll get you into shape quick.”

Lydine saluted and the three others turned and made their way down the road, back to the city. She let out a sigh and looked down at Fulton. The wolf was grinning, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Lydine smiled back. She wasn’t excited for the war like others. She could understand, though, since it had been looming for a decade and now having it finally start was a kind of relief. Lydine liked to hunt and kill the enemies of the Dark Lady as much as any other, but she liked to do it on her terms. A war took away those terms, forced her into bad situations. But now,as a part of something smaller, she could restate those terms.


	2. Butcher's Table Gossip

Junior Apothecary Bartek Gravebloom had been a tall, thin man in life and was now a tall, very thin man in his second life. He was very intact for a Forsaken, having died in a remote section of Tirisfal Glades and being somewhat too distant to have been fully compelled into the fighting of the wars. He had been drawn to them, certainly, but before he could even wander close to a front, it would shift and leave him in a perpetual state of catch-up. Even after that, joining the Royal Apothecary Society even at such a low level allowed him to have his body repaired whenever he wanted.

He gathered up his tools, tucking the worn leather bag under his arm as he left his small, one-room crypt. The air outside his door was cool and still with just a hint of dampness. He looked up and down the narrow hallway and rubbed a hand across his jaw. Many of the lights were extinguished but there were no other workers moving about. Bartek shrugged and made his way out of the housing block. He paused again when his hallway met the main street around the outer Undercity moat. It took him a moment to realize what threw him off but the realization of it made him smile.

There were no guards. The Kor’kron guards - hulking, stupid orcs foisted upon their lovely city, were missing. So was everyone else, for that matter, but the low roar he heard coming from the city center told him where they had gone. He considered, for a moment, whether or not to investigate. He decided it was none of his concern. The Apothecarium was as lively as ever when he arrived.

“Bartek! Hurry up. We have a weeks worth of work and today to do it.”  The speaker was another Forsaken, a short male named Cenric.

Bartek raised his brows in confusion but sped up his pace, falling in beside Cenric as the man moved as fast as he could down the back hallway. The curved ceiling was just high enough for an average sized Forsaken to move under, but this passageway was mostly unused. It was for the Junior Apothecaries and beyond it was where their work stations lay. None of it was as glamorous as working on the Blight like they did above in the big flashy laboratories, but it was necessary.

“Did something happen? Where are all the Kor’kron?” Bartek said quietly, trying to keep his voice from echoing through the hall. He shouldn’t have bothered because Cenric laughed loudly in response.

“Do you not listen to anything?”

“Listen to what?”

Cenric rolled his eyes. “News or even gossip or rumors.”

“No, I don’t really have time.”

“Of course not. Always so busy,” Cenric said with an exaggerated sigh, “With the war coming here, the Dark Lady told them to leave. Go home, be judged in Orgrimmar as failures. She said we didn’t need or want them, they would just be in the way. If they didn’t leave...well.”

Cenric grinned broadly, showing off a full set of yellowed and dangerously sharpened teeth. He shoved the door open and Bartek let out a short, cold bark of laughter. In the center of the room was a large semi-circle table with a number of empty barrels standing around the curved edge. A woman stood there, sharpening a set of knives while seemingly oblivious to the piles of orc corpses that had been stacked around the room.

“I can’t believe it,” Bartek said under his breath as they stepped into the room. It smelled like blood and meat. The corpses were still rather fresh.

“Really? How long have you been dead?” Cenric said with a smirk.

“Won’t the Warchief be upset?” Bartek said as he set his pack on the table. He undid the ties and rolled it open, revealing his collection of well-cared for knives, scalpels, and other tools.

“They’re Kor’kron,” the woman said. Her name was Aenor and she was taller even than Bartek. She had short, spiked purple hair and was missing her eyes, the empty sockets hidden behind a dark blindfold. “No one cares about Kor’kron anymore. Get one of the bodies, we need to get this room cleared before they start to rot.”

Bartek and Cenric grabbed the nearest corpse and hauled it up onto the table. Aenor was holding a large cleaver in her hands and barely waited before she began to dismember it. Bartek was always surprised she didn’t cut her own hands off with the speed she moved, humming to herself and bobbing her head the whole time. The only thing she demanded was that they not move the storage barrels around. The three of them quickly began to fill them with skin, muscle, bones, and organs. When one was nearly full, they’d call for a new one. Another Forsaken would replace theirs, flood the full one with green fluid, and hammer on a lid before rolling it out of the room.

“I don’t think it matters, anyway. The Kor’kron and the Warchief, I mean,” Cenric said, bringing their conversation back up after the three had found a rhythm, “What can they say about it?”

“They could call us traitors and refuse to help us,” Bartek said, not looking up as he began to remove the organs from the latest orc, “maybe even join the Alliance to attack us.”

“Oh, must you be such a pessimist?” Aenor said with a groan.

“I’m just being realistic.”

“My ass, you are,” the woman said as she brandished her cleaver in his direction, “you just like being gloomy. What reason do they have to fight us?”

Bartek looked around the room and shrugged. “I don’t know, Aenor, maybe because we’re currently butchering their people.”

“Alright, so, maybe the orcs don’t like us,” she said with a small huff.

“The trolls like us, though,” Cenric said brightly.

“No, the trolls aren’t squeamish about us. And they find us useful. If that ever stops, we’re out,” Bartek said as he wiped his hand on his robe, leaving it covered in blood.

“And now their leader is Warchief. Could be good or bad,” Aenor said as she tossed a kidney into a barrel without looking up from her work, “The tauren like us, though.”

“No, they want to cure us,” Bartek said. He leaned down over the table and began to flay large lengths of skin off of torso. He tossed clumps of it into the barrel with a thick, wet squelching sound.

Aenor looked as crestfallen as she was able. “Oh, thats true. Maybe if we handed over enough money, the goblins would stop pretending to be allies and actually start.”

“There’s always the elves,” Bartek said.

The other two looked at him for a moment before all three began to snicker. The rumor that the elves had tried to run off and join the Alliance had run rampant through the Royal Apothecary Society.

“It isn’t as though we need them,” Cenric said after the three composed themselves.

Bartek glanced over at him. “You mean the people coming back?”

“Oh, there are so many of them!” Aenor said, a grin on her face. She was covered from hands to shoulders in sticky blood, but she seemed not to notice.

Bartek didn’t question how she knew that. She was always more aware than he was. “I haven’t gone to see the crowds yet.”

“You should! It is impressive and--”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Cenric said, cutting back into the conversation as he threw a large heart into the barrel. “I meant the new recruits.”

“Don’t try to be mysterious, Cenric,” Aenor said as she rolled her head slightly, her version of rolling her eyes, “you mean the vrykul.”

Bartek stopped what he was doing, knife half buried in a green thigh. “Vrykul? What are you talking about?”

Cenric sighed dramatically. “Of course, you don’t know. It would require you to pay attention.”

“Why don’t you shut up and go sit on a couple of your knives, Cenric?” Aenor said as she threw a chunk of bloody flesh and fat at the other apothecary, “The Dark Lady sent an expedition back to Northrend to find new recruits or any information from the Scourge that we could use. She sent a few of the Val’kyr along too. Turns out, the vrykul still like to worship the Val’kyr and they were convinced to kneel to Lady Sylvanas.”

“I heard that there are twenty longboats on the coast near the old monastery,” Cenric said. Bartek worked quietly and listened, content to have the two banter.

“What? Twenty? I heard there were at least fifty. Probably more!”

“Fine, if you say so. But what about the others?”

“The others? Oh, you mean the wyrms?” Aenor said with a giggle.

Both Bartek and Cenric looked at her in surprise.

“Wyrms?” Cenric said, incredulous.

“Oh, yes, frost wyrms,” Aenor said, all but crooning in glee, “Some of the people the Lady sent north were necromancers, you see. And not just any necromancers, but ones specialized in breaking the Scourge control. Once they’re free, they can coax them under the Lady’s command. It only works on undead that still have minds, though.”

“So, frost wyrms?” Cenric said, still looking doubtful.

“Yes, frost wyrms. And wights.”

“Wights? What? Now you’re just making things up,” Cenric said. Aenor pursed her lips as she did her best to mime glaring at him and Bartek laughed under his breath.

“I am not! You make fun of poor Bartek for not knowing things, but you are barely able to listen. You use your eyes too much.”

“Fine, alright then. Wights. What do we need with wights? They’re not exactly known for having a brain, either.”

Aenor tossed her hands up in exasperation. “You are the worst apothecary ever. Yes, some wights are brainless, but most are as smart as they were when they were alive. Think of all the information they remember about the Scourge!”

“Alright, alright. Wights then. Since you apparently know and hear all, what else?”

She waved her cleaver at him threateningly before she began to hack brutally at a stubborn shoulder. She finally managed to tear it away, spattering herself with yet more blood. She sighed and shook her head.

“Not telling you anything else if that’s how you’re going to treat me.”

“Oh, come on,” Cenric said with a groan.

“No, nothing.”

“Please, Aenor?” Bartek said in his sweetest tone. It was somewhat diminished by the gravelly, croaking sound his voice had acquired, but Aenor squirmed in her seat anyway.

“That isn’t fair, Bartek. You know I can’t say no to you,” she said quietly to the dismembered arm in front of her.

“I’m sorry, but I’m curious too,” he said.

Aenor let out a long, slow sigh as she rolled a kidney between her hands. “Alright, fine, but you don’t get to ask me for anything else today. Well, the other thing I’ve heard about was all of the Scourge up there just under the thrall of weak liches or death knights. There’s an entire society of brutal zombie trolls with no guidance. I don’t know about that one, it seems silly because they aren’t really special. Maybe just more bodies that aren’t Forsaken on the line. Unless…”

“Unless what?” Bartek said, looking at her expectantly.

“Well, unless they managed to keep control of the floating necropoli,” she said with a giggle, “Can you imagine what we could do with those? It would be so much fun. Oh, there is also a rumor that they want to find any darkfallen that might be left but that seems really unlikely. Most of them were in the Citadel and very few Scourge escaped there.”

“All of that seems really unlikely,” Cenric said dismissively.

Aenor bristled at that. “I don’t really care if you don’t believe it.”

“I believe it. It doesn’t seem impossible and we are always giving new homes to the undead,” Bartek said thoughtfully as he broke open a ribcage with a loud crack.

“Of course you would,” Cenric said as he stood and moved to select a new body from one of the diminishing piles, “Don’t you believe everything Aenor says?”

Bartek shot the shorter man a threatening glare as they hoisted the dead orc up onto the butcher’s table. “Because Aenor is usually right. Was there anything else you heard, Aenor?”

“Well, yes, but you’ll think it is ridiculous,” she said as she wiped the blood and gunk from a few of her tools, “I don’t even believe it, really.”

“Now I’m more curious,” Bartek said pleasantly, though he continued to stare pointedly at the other man.

“Like I said, I don’t really think it’s true, but there are a few people who are saying it now,” Aenor said slowly, almost carefully. She tilted her face up at them, as if glancing at their reactions while she replaced her cleaver with a small scalpel. “They say that they recruited the Risen.”

Cenric burst out with laughter, nearly dropping his knife on the ground. Aenor scowled at him and hunched over the table, stabbing her scalpel into a hunk of flesh. Bartek ran his hand across his cheek slowly.

“I know that name, but I’m not sure why,” he said after Cenric had quieted.

“It’s what the Scarlet Crusade were called after they were raised as undead,” Cenric said with another laugh, “They hate us even more now than before.”

“I said I didn’t believe it, Cenric,” Aenor said bitterly, “Bartek asked, so I told him. The rumor is that the Dark Lady herself went and somehow convinced them to join up with us. I don’t see how it would be possible, but there it is.”

Before Cenric could retort, the back door to the butchering room banged opened. An overseer, a forsaken in heavy leather robes, thick goggles, and a dark hood, stalked into the room and looked around at the bodies.

“What are you doing? So much damned noise in here and no work!” he said in a low growl, “not another word, not a single one from any of you. If you don’t get this room half cleaned by the time the next shift comes in, you’re being demoted.”

All three nodded and saluted, seemingly satisfying the overseer. He left the room, slamming the door closed. None of them looked at each other as they went back to work, moving as fast as they could to butcher the orc corpses. Hours passed by with nothing but tense silence between them, but by the time their shift ended, they had done as needed. When they were dismissed, Cenric didn’t even bother to clean his tools. He shoved them into his bag and stalked from the room, shooting one last angry glance at Aenor.

“Is he gone?” Aenor asked after a few moments.

“Yes, he is.”

“Good. Can you walk me home, Bartek? I’m too tired to do it alone.”

Bartek smiled and agreed. He gently took her arm after they had finished cleaning their equipment and led her out of the Apothecarium. The dull roar of the homecoming masses was still pulsing through the air and Aenor turned her face towards it until they slipped into one of the side hallways. They stopped in front of the door to her small room and Bartek helped Aenor unlock the door. Instead of leaving him there, she stood and looked at him, biting her bottom lip lightly.

“What’s the matter?” Bartek said.

“You don’t have to stand up for me.”

“Do you not want me to?”

“I didn’t say that,” Aenor said quietly, “just that you don’t have to.”

Bartek reached up and wiped some of the blood from Aenor’s cheek, making the woman smile softly. She brushed her fingertips against the back of his hand.

“Do I look alright?” she asked.

“Perfect, as always.”

“As good as when I was alive?”

Bartek laughed softly. “Better, Aenor.”

She grinned as she leaned close and kissed him on the cheek. “Were you always a flatterer?”

“It’s why you married me, isn’t it?”

“Part of the reason,” Aenor said with an almost wistful sigh, “you better go before someone sees you.”

She didn’t wait for a response and shut the door as she stepped inside. Bartek was left standing, staring at the dark wood, with a dozen things to say running through his head.  Instead, he sighed and reached into his pocket, his fingers caressing the cold circle of metal he hid there. His wedding ring. It didn’t fit anymore, but he always kept it close.

Bartek shook his head and turned back down the hallway, slowly making his way home. Another exciting day of butchering bodies tomorrow, he was sure. He smiled bitterly. How would he even manage to wait until then?


	3. Operation: Marsh Rust

Lydine hated the Wetlands because they both did and did not live up to their name. They were most certainly wet and the Forsaken was well past tired of being up to her knees in brackish swamp water. She was fairly certain, however, that none of this sunken mess could qualify as actual land. The water was decent cover for their tracks though, so she and Fulton slogged their way through it all.

The small squad had numbered only six when they were dispatched. Two were sharpshooters, including her, and the other four assassins and explosives experts. Gregor Bloodvenom had sent them the long way around through the Twilight Highlands to avoid the gathering army closer to the Thandol Span. Instead, they crept down into the canyon leading to Grim Batol and then dispersed from Dragonmaw Pass. Everyone had a part to play and only a certain place to start from, plus the more of them there were together, the easier it would be to spot them.

Lydine wasn’t sure it really mattered if they split up or not. She had only seen one dwarven scout and she killed him without incident, weighing his body down so it sank into the murky water and clingy mud. The dwarves had never truly fought against the Forsaken. The Horde, yes, and the Forsaken as part of that Horde, but never the Forsaken on their own. Every army had their own little quirk or uniqueness that they felt made them the best on the battlefield. For the Forsaken, it was their stamina and their ability to employ subterfuge. The blood elves had their magic, the worgen had speed and surprise. The dwarves, as everyone knew, relied on overwhelming firepower. Tanks and flying machines and artillery were all ready to join the front and the push into Lordaeron.

She made her way to a small island, crowned by a lone moss covered tree and ringed with thick bushes that dangled over the shallow water. It was a few hundred yards from the main road and she had a perfect view as she lay down in the damp soil. Fulton settled in behind her, standing guard in case anyone tried to sneak up on them. Lydine fished in her pocket for a small mirror. She glanced cautiously up and down the road before she flashed it three times, paused, and flashed it twice more. She waited a moment until four flashes came from across the road. She was in the right spot and in time. Now they just had to wait.

 

Dusk was setting in when she saw the first flash of bloody sunlight on metal. Dust rose in the air and before long she could not only hear the growl of the tanks, but feel their thunder through the ground. She began to slow her breathing, settling her rifle against her shoulder. The lead tank was slightly past her, five more rumbling along behind it, when the clusters of explosives flew through the air. They clattered across the road, rolling among the feet of confused dwarves and between the treads of the tanks. The explosions tore through the stillness of the swamp. Dwarves too close were shredded and launched into the murky water. Fire burst through the top of one tank, leaving twisted metal peeled back like flower petals, while the wheels and side of another blew out, leaving it scraping feebly across the ground.

Lydine opened fire. Her slender fingers worked mechanically, speeding up as she got into the familiar rhythm. It was difficult to be as accurate as she wished, as she needed to be with a slower weapon. The dwarves were frantically moving everywhere, attempting to stop fires and find their attackers. Between her shots, she could her the faster fire from Zenzi down the road. The dwarves began to recover and hid behind the tanks from the rain of bullets from the two women. That was their mistake, though, when three figures rose up out of the water and began to attack.

Lydine paused, waiting for a target to become available as she wondered how long her Forsaken companions had been hiding in the water and mud. She hadn’t seen them get into position, so it would have had to have been hours and hours. A dwarf tried to move out from behind the tanks and she fired, sending it collapsing to the ground. She had heard talk that Forsaken didn’t have to breath, that they didn’t need it, but she couldn’t make herself stop. Perhaps it was something that needed training.

“That’d come in handy,” she muttered as she reloaded and watched for any new opportunities.

As she watched, she saw the first wisps of mist rise up above the machinery. The paleness of it stood out sharply against the dark black of burning oil. As it grew in volume, it thickened into a billowing cloud that was tinged with a green that deepened to a familiar hue. Dwarves stumbled out of the gas only to be picked off by the two gunners. Lydine watched one tear at her eyes and scream while fluid ran down her face before the Forsaken put a bullet in the dwarf’s forehead. It was a mercy kill. Lydine wasn’t that cruel, at least not all the time.

A few minutes later, four Forsaken in gas-masks appeared from in between the tanks. Three of them were coated in mud still and the fourth was pointing and gesturing down the road at the other tanks. They made their way among the machines, Lydine following them in her scope just in case, and tossed objects into the hatches. Finished, they waded out into the swamp and motioned at the snipers, who went to meet them. As Lydine gathered up her spent casings, several booming explosions went off as the tanks were destroyed. Their bodies bloomed outward, stretched and bloated and tearing like the bodies of the abominations back home.

“That seemed too easy,” said one of the muddy Forsaken. Lydine couldn’t recognize who it was through the mask.

“Maybe, but easy or not, the job’s done,” said Gray, the dry one, as he tugged his gas-mask off.

“Is killing off six tanks really going to do anything?” Zenzi said, the lanky woman adjusting the goggles she always wore.

“Dunno,” Gray said, glancing back at the dead machines, “but if command says do it, we do it. Not really our place to ask.”

“Well, now what?” Lydine said. She didn’t want to be standing here longer than they needed, exposed by the roadside, while the others discussed the measure of tank-kills.

Gray scratched his cheek, twisting his mouth into an ugly grimace as he thought. The heavy scars on his face didn’t really help any.

“We head up the coast and set up on this side of the bridge,” Gray said, gesturing out across the marshland, “Captain Bloodvenom’s orders so that we can surprise the dwarves a bit more. Other Blightwalkers are set up around so we can pick off anyone who looks important or dangerous during the battle, assuming we don’t get spotted before then.”

“I see why they sent a bunch of raw recruits out here then,” Lydine said bitterly. She meant it to be under her breath, but when she saw the others looking at her, her upper lip curled in an awkward smile. “They won’t lose much if we all die out here.”

“Well, whether that was the plan or not, it’s our job to die if needed for the Dark Lady,” Gray said, glaring at Lydine.

He pushed past her and set out into the swamp, the rest of the demolitionists falling in behind him.  Zenzi smiled sympathetically at Lydine as the two sharpshooters followed along after the others. They trudged along in a cluster this time, apparently dropping the concern that they’d be seen. When they got to the hills near the Thandol Span, they split up. Lydine and Zenzi worked their way up the slopes while the others planned to loop around behind the dwarven force. Eventually, they separated as well, leaving Lydine and Fulton to find an ideal spot. She crawled through the underbrush, leaves crackling beneath her. When she finally found her spot, she let out a low whistle that ended up nothing more than a hissing breath across her metal jaw.

The dwarf camp sprawled out across the road and into the swamp, set up on the few hillocks that rose above the waterline and even on roughly constructed wood platforms. The air was thick with smoke and exhaust from a dozen or more tanks. Flying machines and even a few gryphons were gathered in a makeshift airfield. The noise was oppressive and the heat from the machines and forges washed up out of the shallow valley and across the hills. Across the bridge and the cleft in the land it spanned, Lydine could make out the streaming purple banners of the Dark Lady’s army. A green haze hovered above the camp. Fulton whimpered next to her and she reached out to stroke the mangy fur on his head.

“You’re supposed to be the brave one,” she said with a soft laugh, “Everything’s gonna be fine.”


End file.
